


Of Life and Destiny

by NetRaptor



Series: Destiny and Destiny 2 stories [27]
Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Drabbles, Feels, Gen, Humor, Short Stories, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2020-07-12 03:08:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 5,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19939210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NetRaptor/pseuds/NetRaptor
Summary: A collection of short stories written for Destcember and other challenges. They feature my guardians, as well as official characters like Uldren Sov.





	1. Festival of the Dawning

It was the Festival of the Dawning, and the City was ablaze with decorations. Zavala walked down the snowy street, his ghost at his shoulder, anonymous in the dusk. Strings of colored lights glowed along the eaves and windows of every shop. Street lights sported bows and wreaths. Crowds of people clustered around the shops, talking, laughing.

Zavala had traded his Titan armor for civilian clothes in order to blend in. He was off-duty and didn't want to intimidate passersby.

"This might be harder than you thought," his ghost remarked.

"Selecting a gift for a friend is never easy," Zavala agreed. "Still, Ikora deserves it. She's all that's left of ..." He couldn't finish the thought. Even now, the thought of his fractured fireteam, of Cayde-6 dead and buried, hurt too much. He was determined to appreciate his remaining teammate while there was still time.

Zavala arrived at the City's largest bookstore and went inside. His ghost had covertly quizzed Ikora's ghost about her reading preferences. Thus Zavala bypassed the Warlock section with its tomes on Light, Darkness, history, and esoterica, and made for the romance shelves.

Apparently, Ikora's idea of light reading were romantic encounters with a side of guns and mystery. Zavala tried to identify these, but got lost among the covers of gorgeous, half-dressed men and women in outlandish clothing. He cleared his throat, his face growing warm. "Ah, yes ... help me out, please."

Chuckling, his ghost flew among the shelves, scanning titles. He stopped halfway down the aisle. "Here's an author Ikora likes. I believe she's lacking volumes nine through eighteen."

The covers of these books were darker, although the people were still gorgeous and half-dressed, they sported large rifles. Zavala covertly glanced at the back covers and pondered picking up one for himself. He selected four of the books and took them to the checkout.

Ikora was in line ahead of him, also dressed in civilian clothes. Zavala hid the books behind his back.

Ikora didn't notice him until she had paid for her purchases - a large book on Golden Age military history and two thrillers. Then she looked up and laughed. "Zavala! I didn't know you ever left the Tower." She hid the bag behind her.

"Yes, well." Zavala slid the books to the clerk, face-down. "The Dawning does require the selection of gifts."

Ikora glanced at the books and recognized them, even from the back. She grinned mischievously. "Well then, I'll leave you to it, Commander. Merry Dawning."

She walked out, leaving Zavala slightly flustered, and cheerful for the first time in months.


	2. Kiss

Down in the City was a bakery that gave free cookies to Guardians on the seventh of every month.

"And these are the biggest cookies you've ever seen," Kari said. "Seriously, they're the size of my head."

Her friend Jayesh raised an eyebrow. "Sounds more like dinner than a snack. And they're free, right?"

Kari laughed. "Yes, they're free. That's the point." She knew very well that Jayesh was broke and well-nigh starving. It was why she made sure he got fed.

The bakery had a line of Guardians out the front door. Everyone was in a cheerful mood, laughing, talking, comparing weapons and ghost shells. Ghosts zipped around, playing tag or hide and seek. Kari and Jayesh joined the line.

Despite the length, the line moved quickly. Soon the two warlocks entered the spice-scented atmosphere of the shop, where an Awoken girl in a floury apron handed each of them a massive cookie wrapped in paper.

"You forgot to pay," she said with an impish grin.

Jayesh looked cornered. "I thought it was free."

The girl laughed and tapped her cheek. "A kiss from each of your ghosts is the price."

"What!" Kari's ghost, Neko, exclaimed. "I never agreed to this!" He added in an undertone, "I never kiss anyone but my Guardian."

"Oh, it's just on the cheek," Kari laughed. "No cookie, otherwise."

Phoenix, Jayesh's ghost, rolled his eye. "It's not that big a deal." He flew forward and bumped himself into the girl's cheek.

She laughed. "Thank you! And such a pretty shell, too. Enjoy your cookie, sir."

Shamed into it, Neko flew forward and 'kissed' the girl, too.

"There," she said, "was that so bad?"

"Not answering," Neko retorted, and returned to Kari, his eye flickering with the faintest of pink tones.

As the Guardians strolled back up the street toward the Tower, nibbling their vast confections, Jayesh said to Phoenix, "Thanks. You didn't have to do that."

"You're hungry," Phoenix said softly. "I don't mind."

Kari hefted her cookie. "Aren't these good? Every month it's a different flavor."

Jayesh was halfway through his already. "I think this will become a tradition."


	3. What do you fight for?

Jayesh leaned on the Tower parapet, gazing across the Last City to the Traveler's globe in the sky. The young warlock had just returned from a campaign on Mars, and battle weariness sat in every line of his sagging shoulders.

They had fought the Hive for two weeks, only to come upon a fresh spawning ground that had hatched hundreds and hundreds more of their enemies. It had been a blow to the morale of the Guardians.

And still the Traveler hung in the sky, surrounded by its own floating debris field, damaged from the Red War.

Jayesh focused on it, slipping into the light trance state where he communed with the Light.

"Hello, Traveler," he said.

The Light touched his spark, brightening it where weariness had dimmed it. A voice spoke quietly in his head. "Guardian Jayesh."

He told it about the battle on Mars and how the Hive were always a step ahead. "And Traveler, on the way back, one of the Awoken was saying that you brought war on purpose. It follows you wherever you go. Tell me ... will there ever be peace? Or will we simply fight until there's none of us left?"

"I have a question for you, young light," the Traveler replied. "What do you fight for?"

Jayesh thought about it for a while before answering, gazing across the Last City with its bustling traffic.

"I fight to protect my people," he said. "Look at them. If the Hive showed up at our gates, they'd have no chance. They need us Guardians."

"That's why I created you," the Traveler replied. "Protectors. Defenders. As to your other question about eternal war following me. Do you understand what we truly fight?"

A thrill passed through Jayesh at the mention of 'we'. The Traveler included him in its own cosmic mission.

"We fight the Darkness," Jayesh answered.

"Yes," the Traveler said. "Humanity already possessed some Light and some Darkness when I arrived. Had I passed you by, the Darkness would have fallen upon you eventually. It seeks out and destroys the Light in every corner of the universe. And you would have had no defense."

Jayesh nodded, considering this. "So ... you do bring war, then."

"There will always be war between the Light and the Darkness," the Traveler replied. "Humanity has this war bound up in their own hearts. Read the records of humanity's past. This conflict has always been waged. But now it's external. To win this war, you must know what you fight for. Justice. Peace. Healing. Righteousness."

"I fight for you, Traveler," Jayesh said.

"And I," the Traveler replied, "fight for you in ways you cannot comprehend. Take heart, dear Guardian. Even if one day the Darkness overwhelms me, the Light will shine on in you. And the Darkness cannot comprehend it."


	4. Who guards the guardians?

"Hey, I've got one for you," said Nell. "Who guards the Guardians?"

Her ghost, Hadrian, twirled his shell and thought about this. They were up in a gnarled apple tree, where Nell was snacking before taking her harvest back to her ship. The woods were carpeted in falling leaves.

"I know!" Hadrian said. "We ghosts guard our Guardians. We keep you healed and healthy."

"But is that what that means?" Nell replied. "Like, who keeps Guardians from doing bad things?"

Hadrian flew back and forth, thinking. His shell was decorated with colorful patterns that Nell had painted, instead of wearing a new shell, owing to his terror of being disassembled.

"Other Guardians?" he suggested. "I mean, the Iron Lords stopped the Warlords, and they were all just Guardians."

"And Shin Malphur hunted down Dredgen Yor," Nell said. "You know, that serial killer guy. But that's something I've always wondered. Why do even bad Guardians get the Light? Does the Traveler not care?"

Hadrian tilted himself to one side, like a curious puppy. "That's a good question. Why does the Traveler allow things like that?"

It was Nell's turn to think. She ate half an apple, then gestured at Hadrian with it. "Okay, here's a thought. The Traveler raises Guardians, right? But we come with free will. We're its warriors, not its slaves. We can choose to fight on the side of the Light. Or we can join the Darkness."

"Which costs Guardians their ghost," Hadrian pointed out. "Evil Guardians kill them or abandon them."

"Right," Nell said. "So it looks like the Traveler doesn't care in the short term. But ultimately, it rewards good Guardians with greater power. And bad Guardians eventually lose their immortality."

Hadrian emoted a smile. "That's brilliant. You're so much smarter than me."

"No, I'm not." Nell grinned. "I just have insatiable curiosity."


	5. Gift

The weather was bitter in the Tower as winter's first snowstorm set in. Phoenix, Jayesh's ghost, watched his Guardian repeatedly summon his fiery sword and wings, trying to stay warm.

Phoenix's core ached. Jayesh's Light burned strong, and given enough time, his Guardian would be an incredible fighter. But as a novice warlock still in training, Jayesh shivered in a thin warlock robe he couldn't afford to replace.

As they climbed the Tower steps after training, Phoenix twirled his shell to shed snowflakes. Snow fell fast and hard, the walkway already pitted with footprints.

"Come here, Phoenix," Jayesh said. "You must be freezing."

"Ghosts don't feel the cold," Phoenix proclaimed. But he flew to Jayesh and allowed him to tuck him into an inner pocket.

"You feel like a snowball," Jayesh told him. "I'm hot from practice."

His Guardian's body was warm, and Phoenix tried not to feel too relieved as his icy core thawed. But a gust of wind cut through the thin fabric. Jayesh's breath caught. He pulled his robe tighter around him.

They reached the Tower's main courtyard. "Hey, look!" Jayesh exclaimed. "The Dawning decorations are up!"

Phoenix wriggled out of Jayesh's pocket for a look. Golden globe-like lanterns hung in long strands. They dropped sparkles of Light as the wind swung them about, mixing with snowflakes until the air glittered.

As they admired the decorations, Jayesh asked, "Phoenix, what Dawning gift would you like?"

Phoenix glanced toward the Eververse shop, which displayed new, colorful ghost shells. The ghost still wore his weathered, gray shell, the one the Traveler had created him in. He'd worn it for centuries.

But he knew their bank account held five glimmer bits.

"I don't want anything, Jay," Phoenix said. "This is my first Dawning with my Guardian. I don't need anything else."

Jayesh followed his gaze toward the Eververse booth. Then he looked at his ghost's old shell and gave a small, shamed smile. "I'll earn good bounty money someday. Anyway, I want to give you something. I just don't know what."

This conversation made Phoenix wish he could cry. He tried to sound cheerful. "It's fine. What about you, Jay? What would you like?"

Jayesh laughed. "My own ship, and the latest model racing sparrow, and a real armored robe, and a graviton lance, and - and - oh, an audience with the Traveler. Since I'm making impossible wishes." He caught one of the sparkles that fell from a lantern. It burned in his palm for a moment, then flickered out.

"I'll get you something, Jay," Phoenix murmured. "Something good."

Jayesh smiled wistfully. "Don't worry about it. We have each other. We'll play games and have fun."

Phoenix flew close to his Guardian as they descended the stairs to the dormitories inside the wall. Determination grew within him to give his Guardian a gift. A good gift. Something he could use.

And he had no idea how to do that.

That night, when Jayesh was studying warlock texts from the Archives, Phoenix sent messages to other ghosts he knew, asking their advice.

"My Guardian has lots of gear he doesn't use anymore," one told him. "He's going to sell it all, but he keeps forgetting."

"But ... your Guardian's a hunter," Phoenix replied. "Jayesh is a warlock."

"I didn't say it was perfect," the ghost said. "You're welcome to come look at it."

Phoenix phased through the wall and flew a few doors down to a neighboring dorm room.

The Hunter was asleep in bed, but his ghost greeted Phoenix. "In there," she said, indicating a box in the corner.

It was full of old clothes, cast-off boots, and dirty gauntlets. Phoenix played his scan beam over each item. Then he found a heavy woolen cloak.

"Can I have this?" he asked.

"Sure," said the other ghost. "My Guardian replaced it months ago. It might look a little strange on a warlock."

"My Guardian suffers from the cold," Phoenix replied. "I don't care how he looks, as long as he's warm."

He transmatted the cloak into his memory storage, thanked the other ghost, and sneaked home.

On the morning of the Dawning, Phoenix awoke to find Jayesh stroking him. Phoenix's eye blinked on. He floated into the air from his spot on the pillow beside his Guardian's head. "Merry Dawning, Jay!"

"Merry Dawning, Phoenix," Jayesh said, grinning. "I have a present for you."

"You didn't have to," Phoenix said, pleased and trying not to think of expensive shells. "But first, I have something for you."

Phoenix flew to the table and transmatted the cloak out of his memory. It landed in heavy black folds.

"Phoenix!" Jayesh exclaimed, bounding out of bed and picking it up. "It's a cloak! A really nice one! Where'd you get it?" He flung it around his shoulders. It fell nearly to the floor.

"It's second-hand," Phoenix said. "Another ghost gave it to me. Do you like it?"

"Yes!" Jayesh exclaimed. "It's very warm. Thank you! I didn't expect anything." He sat on the bed and tucked his feet under the cloak. "Now, guess what your present is."

"I have no idea," Phoenix said, emoting a smile.

Jayesh cupped his hands together. "Come see."

A flicker of solar Light appeared in his hands. Curious, Phoenix flew up and looked.

Two flickering wings sat in a nimbus of Light in Jayesh's hands. They looked exactly like the wings granted by a Dawnblade super power.

"I was up late three nights in a row, figuring out how to make them," Jayesh said. He gently poured the light over Phoenix. The wings appeared on either side of his shell, softly glowing, warm as a beam of summer sunlight.

Phoenix was too overcome for words. His baby Guardian, still in training, had worked an advanced Light construct into a transferable gift.

Jayesh misunderstood his silence. His face fell. "I really wanted to get you a new shell, but ... but I can't afford it right now. So I thought ..." He clenched his hands together in his lap. "I thought maybe you'd like some wings. You can turn them on and off. And they emit heat, so you won't freeze anymore. And-"

"Jay," Phoenix interrupted.

Jayesh looked at him, afraid to meet his eye.

"This is better than a new shell." Phoenix zipped around the room, the wings trailing sparks. Then he hurled himself into Jayesh's arms.

Jayesh hugged him, laughing a little to disguise the tears in his eyes. "I love you, little light."

"I love you, Guardian," Phoenix whispered. "Never think I don't."


	6. Voices in my head

"Open the gates, o brother mine."

Uldren awoke and sat up, gasping, clawing away the cloth that covered him. Voices! Her voice. But not her voice.

The voice fell silent. Uldren gazed around, his panic subsiding. He sat upon a stone slab in a pretty gazebo on the side of a rocky hill. Afternoon sunlight streamed across him. He was alone.

Well, not entirely alone. A little robot like a dark pink flower floated nearby. Or, rather, it bounced up and down in the air, spinning its shell segments around the blue eye in the center, waiting to be noticed.

Uldren pointed at it. "You. I should know what you are. You're ..." The word was there, on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn't reach it. His memories were faint, clouded.

"I'm your ghost!" the robot said in a high, cheerful voice. "And you're my Guardian. The Traveler has chosen you to be a powerful warrior in the Light."

He used to know what that meant. Uldren kicked off the sheet and stood up, gazing around. "Was I dead just now?"

"Yes," the ghost replied. "But not dead long. It looked like they were still planning your funeral. Oh, I'm so excited! I've looked for you for so long, Guardian. Do you know your name?"

"Uldren." It was definitely his own. The word had the deep imprint of long use.

"My name is Wil," the ghost replied. "But I have friends who call me Pulled Pork."

Uldren laughed incredulously. "Pulled Pork? Why?"

"I do not know." The ghost managed to look self conscious. "I didn't expect my Guardian to laugh at me. You may call me what you prefer."

"Pulled Pork is fine," Uldren assured him. "Just ... not what I expected."

The ghost replied, but somehow, his voice was inside Uldren's mind. "I can also communicate with you this way."

"Ahh!" Uldren screamed and clutched his head. "Get out get out!"

Pulled Pork cringed backward. "I'm sorry!"

The inside of Uldren's mind was scraped raw. That cheerful voice had touched it, bringing with it flickers of a woman's face, and terrible, slimy jaws, and above all, a voice - Her voice - whispering, urging, pushing.

"Everything I did, I did for her." The words arose from that rawness and tumbled from his lips, even though he didn't understand them.

The ghost flew up and scanned his head. A little of the soreness eased. The memories dulled.

"I'm sorry, Uldren," Pulled Pork said gently. "I didn't heal your brain as I should have. There's lingering psychic damage. It's ... more difficult to heal, now that you're alive. You cling to it."

"No, it's all right," Uldren panted. "I need to remember. It's important."

But he didn't remember much - only scattered impressions, like a handful of faded leaves.

"And please," he added, "don't talk in my head anymore."

"I won't," Pulled Pork assured him. "You're my Guardian. I'm here to help you, not hurt you."

Why did those words, so simple and sincere, pierce his heart like a knife blade? Could it be that no one had ever said them to him in his previous life? Had he lived so truly, awfully alone?

A lump formed in Uldren's throat. "Thanks," he whispered.


	7. Ghost speakeasy

Summer's guardian hadn't been to the Tower in many years. After the Red War, they entered the new Tower, and Summer stared around in awe. "May I go explore?" she asked.

"Of course!" her guardian replied.

Summer's favorite place in the old Tower had been the secret Ghost Speakeasy, a tiny room where ghosts congregated to share gossip. Had they built a new one, or was it gone forever?

A few questions of a few ghosts pointed her in the right direction. Soon, Summer located a tiny door near the ceiling in a back hallway. When she tapped it with her shell, the door was opened by a furtive-looking ghost in a metal shell studded with spikes. "Welcome!" he said, letting her in.

Inside was a crawl space that the ghosts had converted into a new speakeasy. They had transmatted in soft beds, rugs, pictures of their guardians, and one of Lord Shaxx (Summer's core grew hot and she had to turn her back on that one).

The room was full of ghosts - chatting, reclining on the beds, relaxing. Snow, a fierce ghost in a white cat shell, had set up a foot-high booth in one corner where he offered to buy or sell dirt on any Guardian.

"Summer!" several ghosts exclaimed. "You're back! We thought you died in the war!" A minute later, Summer was surrounded by a group of friends, all listening as she told about her adventures surviving with no Light.

As she finished her story and listened to her friends tell theirs, she noticed the guard ghost open the door and look out. He spoke sharply to someone outside, then slammed the door shut.

"Wait," she said, interrupting Elgan's account. "Who was trying to get in?"

The guard ghost spin his shell irritably. "It was only Hadrian."

The ghosts groaned.

"Who's Hadrian?" Summer asked.

Snow left his booth and flew forward, his taped-on cat ears somehow looking fierce. "Only ghosts are allowed in here. Hadrian's not a ghost."

Summer gazed around at her friends, nonplussed. "Not a ghost? What is he, then?"

"He is, too a ghost," said Cobalt. "He has a guardian."

"He's not a ghost anymore!" Snow exclaimed. "But if you want the dirt, cough up the glimmer."

The ghosts looked at Summer expectantly, since she was the only one who didn't know. She glared at Snow. Then she flew to the door and whisked outside.

A single ghost floated outside, his shell drooping in a dejected expression. He looked like a ghost to Summer. He wore a basic shell that his guardian had painted in red and blue geometric shapes.

"Hello," she said. "I'm Summer. Are you new here?"

"Yes, I mean, no," Hadrian replied. "I only just found my guardian, I mean. They won't let me into the speakeasy, and I don't know why. Is there a password?"

He looked at her so earnestly that Summer felt guilt in her core.

"Well, um ... not exactly. They said that you're not a ghost. But you're obviously a ghost," she added with a nervous laugh. "I don't know what they're talking about, I mean, I only just got here, myself ..."

As she talked, Hadrian drew in his segments and closed his eye until he'd shrunk almost a whole size.

Summer stammered to a halt. "I mean, I mean ... I'm sorry. I don't understand."

Hadrian peeked at her through his closed-up segments. "I'm part Servitor," he whispered.

Summer's eye contracted to a shocked pinprick.

Hadrian floated there in silence a long moment. "The Fallen tried to make me compatible with them. I run on their tech. And I ... I carry their signs." He slowly opened his shell. Carved into the inside, and into his core, were the sigils of every Fallen House and a few Houses Summer didn't know.

Hadrian closed his shell, hiding the scars. "They're right," he said simply. "I'm not really a ghost anymore." The deep shame in his voice sent a shaft of pain through Summer.

He turned to leave, but Summer zipped in front of him and blocked his way. "No, don't go. I'll make them let you in. I'll make them be nice. Please."

Hadrian blinked at her a moment, as if trying to decide whether to trust her. Finally he said, "All right."

Summer flew to the door and knocked. When the guard opened it, she said, "Hadrian's coming in. And if you're cruel to him, Traveler help me, I will transmat all of you into the sewer."

There was a stunned silence as the ghosts stared at her. Then the guard let Hadrian in, and every ghost greeted him heartily, even Snow.

They were afraid not to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was based on a comic about a ghost speakeasy by newbabyfly. Her work is available on Tumblr and her blog, schism dot org.


	8. Newest

The ghost had wandered for a thousand years since its birth, seeking his Guardian. He had watched empires rise and fall, witnessed humanity's retreat to the Last City. And he still had not found the spark that sang to him, the heart destined to bind to his own Light.

Weary beyond expression, the ghost made his way back to the Last City in the Traveler's shadow. He might have to return to the Traveler, admit his defeat, and hope the Traveler accepted him back into the Great Consciousness. He had failed. He couldn't find his Guardian.

But then, as he flew above the buildings of the City, he halted. Was that the pull of a spark? He hovered, turning this way and that, feeling for it. Yes, surely it was his Guardian! Here, in the City, the last place he thought to look. Guardians usually didn't appear among the living, so he had never bothered looking.

He darted downward, scanning the rooftops and walls, searching. The sense of the spark drew him onward, through the neighborhood to the smallest house at the end of the street, nearest the city's wall. He was so desperate to find his Guardian that he phased straight through the wall to enter the house.

The ghost entered a small bedroom. A woman sat in a rocking chair, holding a newborn baby.

The baby's spark sang to the ghost's core.

How could it be possible? He had waited all this time for his Guardian to be born? It staggered him with confusion. But there was no mistaking the glory of his Guardian's spark.

The mother saw the ghost and gasped. "What do you want?"

"Your son," the ghost said, still shocked, himself. "He's my Guardian."

The baby turned his head, gazing at the ghost with a deep, wondering look. And the ghost's heart was lost forevermore.

"Hello, Guardian," said the ghost.

The baby smiled.


	9. Dark side of the Moon

Dark Side of the Moon

* * *

Eris Morn stood at her post on a rocky outcrop on Earth's moon. The area was atmospheric-shielded, an old Clovis Bray tech that the Guardians had repaired. Eris could stand in the moon's harsh sunlight and gaze across the jagged mountains to the Hellmouth, and beyond, to the Scarlet Keep.

She didn't think much of the view.

Her body was swathed in thick robes, and the mask across her eyes barely concealed the three abominable Hive eyes embedded in her skull. In one hand she carried a floating object wreathed in green soul fire. And around her clustered the illusions of her dead fireteam, constantly whispering to her of despair and failure.

The Guardians had been helping her clear away the Nightmares, fighting bad memories with good. But it was exhausting all the same.

As Eris stood there, mentally holding her block against the whispers, a warlock transmatted into the atmosphere shield and approached her, pulling off his helmet. Eris glanced at his Light aura, visible to her non-human eyes. Every Guardian was different, and this young man blazed with Solar Light. A song constantly reshaped it into both weapons and healing.

"The Hive hate Sunsingers," she told him by way of greeting. "Your song disrupts the deathsong."

The warlock looked nonplussed for a moment. "I ... well ... thanks, I guess." He cleared his throat and produced a paper-wrapped package from beneath his robe. "This is a care package from Ikora Rey."

Eris took it, warily. "Why is she sending this now?"

The warlock's brown skin flushed a little. "She says you've been up here a long time, and ... the Dawning is starting up."

"Another stupid holiday," Eris muttered. "Although not so stupid as the Festival of the Lost, I suppose." She unwrapped the package and found a jug of fresh water, fresh produce from Earth that was so hard to come by in space, and various small self-care items that Eris grumbled over but would use anyway.

"What's your name, Guardian?" Eris asked.

"Jayesh Khatri." He'd been gazing at the Hellmouth in the distance with a sick expression, as if he sensed the aura of Darkness that bled out of it.

"Tell me, Jayesh Khatri. Do you ever have nightmares?"

He nodded and glanced at the ones hovering around Eris. "Mine are ... things coming through doors. Always ... a door opening."

Eris slowly nodded. So few words, yet they sketched a better picture of this Guardian's past trauma than an hour of conversation.

"Do good things ever come through doors?" Eris asked.

Jayesh avoided her gaze for a moment, not sure whether to look at her masked eyes or at the ground. "I suppose. Everyone I love."

"Next time you see a door," Eris told him, "force it open. Force it to show you a loved one instead of a horror. Only then can you conquer the fear."

Jayesh nodded and gulped.


	10. For Every Rose, a Thorn

For every rose, a thorn

* * *

Dear Rezyl,

Today would have been your three hundredth resurrection day. I know you've been dead a long time, but I still keep track. Thinking of what you might have been. What we might have been.

I write to you every year on this date. Last year, I mentioned that Shin Malphur was thinking of passing Thorn to a worthy Guardian. It was weighing on his mind, and he wishes to retire from being a Renegade. I'm happy to say that he found a worthy candidate.

I confess, I shadowed the Guardian as he claimed Thorn. I feared what corruption it might whisper to his mind, as it did to you. But he immediately set about purifying it, stripping off the accursed bone and reverting the weapon to Rose.

I remember how much you loved that gun, Rose. It never left your side. Seeing it again brought back the good times ... when you were a mighty Titan, protector of the Last City. Our long conversations about how to bolster its defenses. You were so idealistic, so hopeful. Oh, my Guardian, my Guardian.

This other Guardian poured light into Rose and remade it into Lumina, a gun that fires Light to heal and empower teammates. I wish you had sought such a path. Instead of raw power, why did you not seek the harder path? But no. It was not to be.

Your old self would have been proud to see Lumina in the hands of a fellow protector. Your later self would have despised it as weakness.

Sometimes, on these days of memory, I think of finding your grave and resurrecting you from the ashes. See your face. Hear your voice. But the creature I would return to life would not be Rezyl Azzir. It would be the monster I do not name.

You were my most blessed rose, and my most cursed thorn. A thorn that has not left my heart since Shin Malphur executed you.

And you spoke truth on that day, as you died.

Nothing ends.

Neither does my grief.

Your ghost,

Vincent


End file.
